


Advanced Studies in Narcissism

by volunteerfd



Category: Community (TV), It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:13:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9961418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd
Summary: Jeff Winger is a man without a community: alone in a new city, struggling at his new job, and without the support of his study group. Then he meets Dennis Reynolds, a man of taste and class far above his station. Dennis just needs a little mentoring. It's a perfect arrangement.But then Jeff realizes his assessment is off. Dangerously off. What was supposed to be a simple bond between mentor and mentee (or hero and worshipful disciple) turns into something much darker. When the power dynamics shift, Jeff doesn't know if he'll make it out alive.He doesn't watch Lifetime movies, after all.





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn’t the type of bar Jeff usually went to, with its cheap whiskey and the smell of vomit; gaudy illuminated signs--shamrocks and guitars, the gaudiest of all illuminated signs; lighting dimmed not for ambience but because you didn’t want to see where you were. If you did, you’d run to the rat-infested alley, sink against whatever patch of brick wasn’t already occupied, and break the fuck down, crushed by the weight of regrets. Then you’d get up, swipe your eyes and sniffle, and walk back into the bar, pretending like you and a half-dozen other people weren’t just primal, sobbing animals.

OK, it was exactly the type of bar he went to. Except this one was worse. This one was barren. Maybe it was closed and someone forgot to lock up. No, it was creepier than that. Maybe it was haunted.

Jeff rolled his eyes. Of course it wasn’t haunted. Ghosts didn’t exist.

Well, now he had to stay. He wasn’t afraid of no bar.

He called into the void. “Hello?”

The thought that he was trespassing flitted through his mind, and the bar’s Philly-hick owners would jump out from the shadows, shotguns a-ready to defend their deceptively closed bar. Or--Jeff shuddered--foreclosed.

The side door opened and a well-coiffed man walked in, swiping at his eyes with his forearm. Clean cut, trim build, a polo shirt that hugged an undoubtedly well-maintained body. Good hair. Great hair, actually. This man didn’t belong in this bar. Then again, neither did Jeff.

The man glanced in Jeff’s direction, scowl still affixed to his face, and then glanced at him again. A classic double-take. If only Jeff could say he were used to them.

“Hey there!” The man sniffed. Allergies, probably. “What can I get you?”

Jeff looked around. This whole situation was a bit too The Shining for his taste but, again: ghosts. Not real. He took a seat at the bar. The man had excellent cologne, too. Lesser men would be tempted to slather on a scent that subtle. Not this guy. He knew how to use it. Ask what it is, a voice in Jeff’s head whispered.

“Whiskey. Neat.”

“Dennis, by the way.”

“Jeff.”

“So what brings you here?”

Jeff had the same question for Dennis. Dennis worked there, sure, but… why him. Why here? Struggling actor-bartenders, maybe, although they weren’t as common in Philly as they were in, say, LA or New York. He wasn’t pathetic enough to be a garage band musician. If he tried, he could be the maitre’d in a high-end restaurant, not this dump. The words too good for this bar flashed in Jeff’s mind. Jeff never considered anyone too good for anything. Except himself, of course. And sometimes Annie.

“In the neighborhood. Thought I’d check it out.”

“Well,” Dennis said, pouring a heavy hand of whiskey, “first one’s on the house. So what d’you do?” Dennis poured himself a glass, too. Not the most conventional bartending, but it seemed right. Besides, no one else was around. They both had to pass the time somehow.

“Me? Oh, I’m an attorney. Took a break from it for a while but I’m getting back in the game.” And thinking of getting out of it again. The perks--those boozy dinners on company’s dime; hot, hyper-competitive lawyer chicks eager to hate-fuck him; boozy strip club lunches; private office, boozy solitary hours--weren’t so gratifying this time around. Maybe he was getting older. Aging happened to a lot of people, or so he heard, but he didn’t think it would happen to him. Like winning the lotto or getting abducted by aliens.

“An attorney!” Dennis’ eyes glittered in the harsh fluorescent lights. That was one perk that hadn’t worn out yet. Laymen were still impressed by lawyers. Sure, they could recite jokes about how useless, sleazy, fundamentally awful, and subhuman attorneys were--but it was only to make themselves feel better for not having the Esq next to their name. “Wow, that’s pretty--uh, pretty neat.” Dennis cleared his throat.

“Yeah. Criminal law.” Jeff shrugged, playing it cool.

“You must have some stories.”  
  
Jeff smiled and reached for one of his top-shelf spiels, a murder trial where his client malingered the entire DSM. His client pieced together each disorder from the most lurid episodes of Law and Order: SVU, then put them through a grinder of even worse acting and more shameless sensationalism. He was a trip. One day a drag show of Norman and Norma Bates, the next a bad impersonation of The United States of Tara, always a terrible liar.

The story was a gamble since someone might nag him about blah blah blah ethics and wah wah sixteen dead hitchhikers, Jeff! But, hey, the guy swore he didn’t do it, even to his own lawyer, so…And Dennis was a bartender. A bartender in Philly. In an Irish dive bar. If you couldn’t confide in one of those without judgment, who could you confide in?

“Man, that is crazy. Crazy awesome! And you--you got him off?” 

Jeff smiled a bashful little half-smirk that said ‘I know I should feel guilty but yeah, I’m awesome. You know it and I know it.’

“I’m sure you get some crazies here, too,” Jeff said. A bit of charity for the man on the verge of hero-worship. Of course, bits of charity make hero-worshippers lower themselves flat on their faces before such beneficent, humble Gods.

“Oh, man, you wouldn’t believe half the stuff that goes on in here.” He launched into a story about a former priest, now a homeless crack addict burn victim, that seemed a little...grim? Then again, who was Jeff to judge? He’s the one who set the bar for grotesquerie. Perhaps he set it a little too high. He changed the subject.

“Say, I don’t want to be too forward--”

“Oh?” Dennis raised his eyebrows.

“--but I was wondering what scent you’re wearing.”

Dennis broke into a grin. “Excellent question! It’s--”

“...it’s an urban legend!”

“It’s not an urban legend!”

The bathroom door swung open, amplifying the shrill argument. These people belonged in this bar. A breastless blonde and a hobbit guy in a trashy army-green jacket and a vomit-stained t-shirt. Jeff cocked his head to the side. The woman was about a six...Maybe a seven? No, a six. Seven? Six? God, it killed Jeff that he couldn’t figure it out. She seemed like she should be hotter than she was. Maybe it was the voice that knocked her down. Regardless, he’d sleep with her. Six and a half.

“It’s an urban legend! Cats can’t kill mice! I tried, man. They’re useless. You gotta do it yourself. The mice whack ‘em with frying pans if they get too close.”

Dennis’s jaw twitched, gaze dropping to the bar, his face unnaturally still and blank.

“Do you believe Tom and Jerry cartoons are real?” the woman asked.

“No, of course they’re not real, but they’re based on real events.”

“Charlie! Dee!” Dennis said, voice tense. “This is Jeff.”

“Ooooooh, Jeff! Hiiiii Jeff!” Charlie and Dee said, voices somehow rising even higher. They surrounded Jeff, surveying him like a used car.

“How tall are you, man? Six one? Six two?” Charlie asked.

“Six four, actually.” Jeff tried to hide his smile. The people were gross, but hey, attention.

“Geez, six four. Can you believe it?

“Like a basketball player.” Dee looked him up and down with a bold smirk. “You’re an athlete, aren’t you?” She squeezed his bicep. Charlie, to his dismay, started kneading his forearm.

“Jeff,” Dennis announced, drumming his fingers on the table and staring up at the ceiling, “this is my sister, Dee, and this is--Charlie. Charlie unclogs our toilets with his bare hands and Dee is a recovering crack addict if you couldn’t tell by her freakishly thin frame and bad teeth.”

“Woah, hey! I had this body and these teeth before my addiction, plus if you care to remember, you were snorting lines right along with me, OK?”

Awkward silences. Tense stare-offs. Jeff wasn’t a stranger to them. Or to situations being defused with forced, loud laughter.

“That’s how we joke. We’re siblings. You have siblings, Jeff?” Dennis grinned.

“No.”

“Well, that’s how all siblings mess around with each other.”

Jeff forced a pleasant smile and moved his arm out of Charlie’s toilet-hand grip while subtly moving his ear away from Dee’s screeching mouth. This bar was worse than haunted. It was fucked.

“It was nice meeting you.” Jeff set a generous tip on the bar and stood up to awed gasps (“Look at this guy! He’s freakishly tall like you, Dee, but he makes it look good!”)

“Wait wait wait!” Dennis ran to the door. “I don’t want you to think that those people are a reflection on me as a person. I am a quality man. A man of taste, of class. I am not--I am not one of them.”

Now would be a good time to impart some hard-earned wisdom on this man. Life lessons that Jeff learned first hand. About friendship, about value, about loyalty, love. Instead, he nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, man, I know what you mean. Friendship baggage. We all got it, right?”

Dennis laughed loudly. “Friendship baggage! Classic! Yeah! Friendship bag--man, you are funny. Do you want to maybe exchange numbers?”

“Sure thing. Take my card.”

“Card! Wow! A business card. Just like Patrick Bateman, haha. Bone. Silian rail. Like the movie, right? Not that you’re a serial killer. Wow. Great. I, uh,” Dennis patted his shirt pockets. “I seem to be all out of business cards at the moment but. I’ll call you.”

“Sure,” Jeff winked. Wouldn’t hurt to hang out with a man of his caliber.


	2. Dennis Classes Up The Bar

Classing up the bar shouldn’t be too hard. Truth be told, Dennis wanted to do it for the longest time. But the gang. Boy, did they keep him down. They were like an awful tarp, smothering him, weighing him to the ground even as his wings beat ceaselessly against it, keeping him from being his best self. Well. No more excuses. He’d class up this goddamn bar all by himself. 

All by himself and on zero hours sleep. He made a day trip into Williamsburg, scouting out the bar scene, and then spent the night scrolling through etsy and GQ archives and screaming when he learned that Williamsburg wasn’t the in place anymore,  _ Greenpoint  _ was,  _ FUCKING GREENPOINT, FUCK BROOKLYN, FUCK LENA DUNHAM,  _ and had to make another trip into Greenpoint to check out  _ their  _ bars until he had a pretty good idea of what was cool, but he had good ideas and a vision and a million books about feng shui open on the counter that  _ weren’t helpful at ALL they were STUPID  _ but most importantly he had what couldn’t be taught: he had good taste. Even Jeff thought he had good taste. 

_ Say, I don’t want to be too forward but I was wondering what scent you’re wearing.  _

Dennis’ eyes fluttered with pleasure at the memory. The surface meaning would have been enough: Dennis had impeccable taste. Dennis was a trendsetter. A taste-maker. A man worthy of admiration and adoration. His scent alone--his own primal musk mingling with a dash, just a dash, of Clive Christian-- exuded it. 

But there was another level of meaning, a deeper level, like a lost paradise, a whole city of palatial buildings extending up to the heavens, roads of glittering gold: Jeff  _ saw  _ him. Jeff saw  _ him.  _ As an equal. As a kindred spirit. Nothing so base as what he and Mac had. _ Blood brothers.  _ Base and bestial. A relationship of the body, not the mind, not the soul. Kindred spirits transcended the physical realm and mingled in the air like the particles of three thousand dollar cologne, light and invisible and free, unbound by petty worldly  _ shit _ .  

“Feng shui feng shui feng shui how the FUCK do you FENG SHUI a BAR.” He pounded his fists on the bar, effectively undoing his hours of painful polishing, the obsessive scrubbing that made his knuckles bleed. _MASON JARS WEREN’T IN ANYMORE. MISMATCHED GARAGE SALE DISHWARE WAS IN. BUT WAS THAT TOO TWEE? TRUE CLASS SHOULD BE TIMELESS._  

The front door opened and the rest of the gang filed in except Frank, who was in jail or at a trial for fraud charges or fled the country to avoid them or something. Dennis hadn’t even noticed the time. They were  _ here _ and he hadn’t gotten anything  _ done.  _

“What’s going on here? What’s with all the books?” Mac asked, crinkling his nose.

 Dennis amicably bared his teeth. “I was thinking we should class up the bar a bit.” 

 “Class up? This bar?” Dee snorted.

 “Yeah. I think we should, you know, aspire to a higher clientele.”

 “A higher clientele?"

 Dennis wiped  his smudged fist stain off the counter. “Businessmen and the like. Attorneys.”

 “Attorneys?” Charlie wrinkled his nose. 

 “People with jobs. We’re in our 30’s--and that’s generous for you, Dee--”

 “We’re the exact same age.”

 “It's different for women but anyway--people in their 30’s should have something to show for it. Do we want to be classy, respected members of society? Or do we want to keep serving the scum of Philadelphia in this trashy bar  until we die?”

 “Hey,” a bleary-eyed drunk lifted his head up from the table long enough to take offense to the statement before passing out again.

 “C’mon, man, don’t go after Randall like that,” Charlie said.

 “Yeah. Don’t--don’t do that. Randall never did anything to you,” Mac agreed.

 “Forget Randall! It’s not about Randall! It’s about us! It’s about who we are and the image we present to the world with these--this--tacky palm tree!”

 “First you go after Randall and now you’re too good for Palm Cruise? Who are you, man?” Mac moved protectively in front of the illuminated palm tree, as if Dennis would smash it in his rage. And to be honest, there was a coin flip’s chance that it would get to that point.

 “Ooooh, this is about that guy, isn’t it? _Jeff_?” Dee asked.

 “What guy? Who’s Jeff?” Mac asked.

 “It’s not about Jeff.”

 “Some guy. Stopped by the bar a few days ago. You and Frank were off doing that pyramid scheme.”

 “It wasn’t a pyramid scheme. It was a multi-tiered investment opportunity for capitalist entre--you know what, I don’t have to explain economics to you. Dennis, you never mentioned anyone named Jeff.”

 “Of course I didn’t mention anyone named Jeff. He’s irrelevant and unimportant. Would you like me to log everyone who sets foot in the bar and report them to you? Do you want me to keep tabs like Big Brother? Sorry, I thought this was a bar. I thought this was _America,_ not some fucking nanny state. Who the fuck is Jeff, anyway? I don’t even remember what Jeff looked like.”

 “You don’t? Guy was huge! Like, six four, he said! And those bulging muscles. Totally ripped. Like Vin Diesel.” Charlie gushed.

 “OK, OK, definitely not Vin Diesel--”

 “And he cleaned up nice, too,” Dee added.

 “Yeah. What was that, a Kelv Incline shirt?”

 “Might’ve been Armani.”

 “OK! I see how it is! You two have a big old man crush on Jeff and you’re projecting it onto me! You just wanna go to the tailor together and slather those muscles with hot massage oil after a tough work-out, maybe go to a club and pick up a couple of hardbodies, maybe MAYBE have a four-way where the physical bodies of the women are merely a platform by which your soul can bond with another man at a beautiful and intimate level you never experienced before! Just admit it but leave me out of your sick fantasies! You’re sick! You’re gross! Disgusting!”

 Dennis stormed past  Mac, who took an instinctive step closer to Palm Cruise. 

 “Dude, I think Dennis has a man crush,” Dee said.

 


	3. Beginner Italian-Pennsylvanian Cuisine

Cool off in the car. Front seat, breathe. He was better than those people in there. No need to get worked up  _ over those people in there. _ He knew from the start they wouldn’t support him. They’d mock him. Clip his wings. Well, he wouldn’t let them. He’d fight back with talons. 

 

Three days was enough time to give Jeff a call. It was the standard call-back period for a date, and it wasn’t like Dennis wanted to date Jeff. So really, three days were  _ more _ than enough. He pulled out his phone and the business card, even though Jeff’s number was already in the phone. 

 

Jeff  _ Wing _ er. Kismet.

 

How was he going to do this? Hey, is this Jane? No? Jeff? Sorry, I was calling this chick but--How’ve you been?

 

Or, Oh, hey, I found your business card and I forgot where I know you from…

 

He swished the business card against his fingers. Decisions, decisions. He decided.

 

“Hey, Jeff? Hi! It’s Dennis. From the bar.”

 

“Oh, hey! Paddy’s, right? What’s up?”

 

“Nothing much. Just found your business card lying around, thought I’d give you a ring, see if you wanted to meet up or something.” Dennis cringed. Too much? No, because then Jeff responded super casually. 

 

“Sure. Don’t really know my way around Philly yet. I’d love for someone to show me.”

 

Score! New in town meant vulnerable, eager for guidance. He could take Jeff under his wing. Sure, Jeff had a better job, more money, but nothing could knock a man down from alpha status like being  _ new in town.  _ “Awesome, great.”

 

“I’ll meet you at Paddy’s?” 

 

“ _ No! _ No, actually, we just started renovating. We were planning it long before you ever stopped by. Way, way before you stopped by. You happened to catch us on our last normal day. The bar’s last day, I mean. Of that whole--decor mess. And now we’re renovating!”

 

“OK…” Jeff trailed off, uncertain.  _ REGROUP. _

 

“I know a great Italian place, Guigino’s. Have you been there yet?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Well, it’s a great Italian...”  _ Said that already.  _ Dennis shook his head.

 

“Awesome! Tomorrow? Eight?”

 

“Yeah, awesome. Tomorrow. Eight.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Adjusting to Philly was harder than Jeff thought it would be. Used to be he could strut  into any new bar, any new town, any new  _ country  _ and, Christ-like, spread his arms for a willing flock. That was before. Before the study group, leaving his emotions raw and exposed and, worst of all, rendering him  _ humbled.  _

 

Humbled! Him!

 

And now he was back in another douchebag law firm, falling into old habits. And now he didn’t even have the study group to keep him grounded.

 

“You can’t let characters develop too much,” Abed had explained, “because you risk losing the traits that made the characters endearing in the first place. But you need to give the audience the illusion of character development to make themselves feel that they, too, can change and that the show is progressing.”

 

Jeff didn’t know why he suddenly remembered that inane conversation as he pulled into Guigino’s. (“OK,” Annie had conceded, “but that doesn’t change the fact that  _ Supernatural  _ is a lousy show.” “And sexist,” Britta added, even though she’d never seen it.) It happened a lot, though. Random memories. A flower skirt, a letterman jacket. Ugh, nostalgia. Mush for the soul. Enough to make him barf. Adults grew up and they grew apart. That’s life. 

 

Dennis was already at a table, dressed in a fashionable blazer, dressy but not  _ too  _ dressy. A good call. Regardless, the guy needed a mentor. Not a full-blown 1980’s geek-to-chic movie makeover, just someone to smooth out the edges. An air of desperation stunted Dennis, a slight air that could be as subtle as his cologne but, at times, wafted into and out of conversation as quickly as a gust of wind from a ruptured septic tank. But weren’t such people Jeff’s specialty? Misfits and losers who needed a little help. And, let’s face it, Dennis required a lot less help than any member of the study group. Plus, Jeff just had that effect on even the most alpha of all alpha males. He couldn’t blame Dennis for having a boy crush.

 

“Hey. Sorry I’m late.”

 

“No worries.” 

 

The waiter placed a basket of bread on the table, and though they both smiled and thanked the waiter, neither of them grabbed for it. It would remain untouched for the entire dinner. Whatever Dennis’ shortcomings turned out to be, it was nice to have a guy friend who wouldn’t call him a homo for abstaining from carbs.

 

“Are you ready to order?” 

 

Jeff followed Dennis’ lead (good taste in wine, too--meant the cologne wasn’t a fluke). 

 

“Not a bad place for Philly,” Jeff said, approvingly. 

 

“So what brings you here?” Dennis asked. It was a good question and Jeff still wasn’t entirely sure.

 

“Sometimes you just need to start over, you know?”

 

Dennis raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” 

 


End file.
